Angel With A Shotgun
by WordsAblaze
Summary: They stand together, they stand as one: Dan and Phil. The too-human demon and the too-human angel, a spawn of evil and a spawn of good: A demon soldier and an angel fighter... An angel with a shotgun. A Phan songfic based on the song by The Cab. Enjoy!


_I strongly recommend listening to ' Angel With A Shotgun' by The Cab while you read this!_

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 **Angel With A Shotgun**

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Phil smiles sadly.

He takes a deep, deep breath.

Considering what he's about to do, he doesn't have many of those left.

He lets his wings spread wide, stretching them as far as they can go and watching the pure white feathers unfold into their magnificent, impressive wingspan.

But only for a moment.

He forces them to fold back into the smallest they're able to become, tucking them behind his back and making sure they aren't visible as he wraps a blanket over his shoulders, a plain grey blanket that won't cause suspicion as he leaves.

He has to hide his wings for tonight.

He practically jumps as someone comes up behind him and taps his shoulder.

It's PJ.

"Hey, Phil, you alright?" the other angel asks kindly. But then again, their species don't usually have many options other than 'kind'.

"Yeah, don't worry!" Phil grins back, trying to seem as reassuring as he can.

PJ looks almost doubtful as he licks his lips nervously, "Phil…"

"Peej, honestly, it's all good!" Phil repeats, nodding convincingly.

It's a good thing he wasn't like all the other angels and he could lie when he needed to, even if it did cause him some sort of pain. But at least he wasn't trapped in the truth like everybody else.

PJ looks unconvinced but nods back, "Phil, mate, I trust you. Just… be careful, yeah?"

"Of course," Phil replies instantly, knowing it's a lie and feeling the guilt grow inside of him.

"Catch you later, eh?" PJ asks, with a wink.

"Sure, see you then," Phil answers.

He had no worries about dealing in falsehoods because he doesn't care what heaven thinks; he has something more important to worry about.

Or rather: someone.

PJ salutes and flies off as Phil once again justifies his actions to himself, flying to the outskirts of heaven and rubbing dust all over his face, allowing the dirt to stain the otherwise unstainable white attire.

It takes him a good five minutes to even put his hand in his pocket and a further five to take out the broken glass shard. Another ten minutes later, he's still staring at it, unsure if he wants to fake having just found it or not; he knows lying can be countered with the severest of punishments, which is often being sent to hell, just because it shows an alarming amount of humanity.

By all accords, no angel should even be able to touch the glass without painfully burning.

But he was different.

Not an anomalous different, but a regular different.

Many angels weren't absolutely pure, small pieces of common humanity still inside them. But most of them tried their very best to hide it, suppressing their human traits until they were deemed pure.

Phil frowns at the thought, knowing that he has too much humanity in him to hide it.

Of course, he'd been doing the exact same thing a few months back.

Before he met the demon boy.

The demon boy who has too many angelic qualities for his own good, the soft goodness inside him parallel to the fiery opposite nestled inside Phil's soul.

The demon boy who showed him what friendship truly means.

The demon boy who taught him to enjoy living, not just surviving.

The demon boy who helped him to find love.

Phil sighs quietly as he slides down the wall, his wings protesting at the way he lets them scrape against the rough bricks, ruffling and damaging the beautiful feathers.

He knows he loves the demon boy, but that isn't all.

He's in love with him.

For the first time in his life, Phil Lester is truly in love.

He's loved and been loved many a time before but there'd always been something missing, something empty, something he now realises is the demon boy.

That's all it takes to trigger himself into action and then he's shattering the glass shard as harshly as he can, throwing away each tiny segment so the angels on surveillance can be alerted quicker and he can leave this place sooner.

He shuts his eyes, slipping in his coloured contacts, making sure his face is sufficiently smeared with dirt, and pushing his fringe back up over his head into a quiff so he's unrecognisable.

Within a minute, a familiar face is glaring at him coldly, a guilt gun pointed straight in his face.

He almost laughs.

A guilt gun is nothing to him now.

Before, it would have been petrifying but now, after having gone to hell on so many separate occasions, it seems frivolous and petty. After all, what's a weapon that sends you into an endless loop of guiltily conscious compared to the fiery punishment, of having to helplessly watch as your loves ones get hurt, that hell dishes out?

Nonetheless, he pretends to cower, dropping the small remaining piece of glass that remains in his hand and watching the angel guard watch it fall.

The glare of his past brother and instructor is soon joined by three brutal combat soldiers he'd helped rescue once upon a time. He resists his urge to ask about their families and bites his tongue, staying as still as possible.

"Who are you?" the cold tone that used to be a kind older sibling voice booms above him.

He schools his expression into one of fearful defiance, "S- s- screw y- you!"

"You little devil!" Martyn roars and flicks two fingers, sending the two soldiers forward.

He feels their harsh grip on his arms, all of his energy focused on not moving his wings, praying he doesn't get discovered and simply thrown into a cell; he needs to join the war.

He needs to find the demon boy.

He needs to be with him.

Phil stays limp as they drag him to heaven's gates, his face twisting into a grimace as the tug of heaven's centre tries to prevent him from leaving. He curls his fingers into fists, his nails digging into his palm to form small crescent – shaped cuts as he tried to remain unmoving.

Soon enough, they're banishing him.

They're chanting the protection wards and making sure he can't enter ever again.

Not that he wants to.

But there's something about being thrown out by his own blood that seems cruel, too cruel.

He shakes his head as discreetly as he can, reminding himself that all of this will be worth it.

Giving up his faith in heaven is an easy deal for a lifetime of love with the demon boy.

And anyway, he knows that he'll seem like he was the perfect angel when all that remains of him is memories. People will forget his bad quirks and remember the better traits, turning him into something he wasn't. In the end, he won't harm anyone by leaving.

After all, grief is a bittersweet luxury angels aren't permitted to experience.

"Go rot in hell, half – breed scum!" one of them growls, shutting him out and slamming the metal gate loud enough for it to ring in his ears.

The pain is instant and without warning.

Phil howls.

He drops to his knees, gasping for breath.

His arms curl around his middle and the tears cascade from his eyes, past his defined cheekbones and down the edge of his nose, dripping down his chin and smashing into the unforgiving ground beneath him.

It's awful.

He groans as his wings start to throb, a fire of pain starting in his shoulder blades and forcing its burning embers through his blood, in his bones and across his skin.

The flames of agony immolate his heart, his lungs, and his mind.

He can't breathe.

His insides are burning so badly he can't think to suck in the oxygen he needs, his hands trembling as he doubled over in pain, his head hitting the pavement as he clamps his eyes shut in attempt to stop the sobs wracking his gaunt frame.

But it doesn't work.

Black smudges flicker inside his vision even with his eyes firmly closed so he groans, his breathing rate quickening dangerously.

Then his wings burn.

He screams.

His raw, guttural scream of pure anguish reverberates in the air around him.

He screams when the feathers are set ablaze and the bones inside his wings start to crumble, turning to ashes as he whimpers.

He cries out sharply, arching his back and pointlessly twisting on the ground as he tries to rid himself of the pain.

It doesn't work.

He writhes and squirms until he goes blank.

Empty.

He gasps, gulping in the numb, painless air as lies on his back, his eyes still squeezed shut.

He freezes

He's lying on his back.

On his back.

Which means...

His wings are gone.

He doesn't have wings anymore.

Phil wails.

He knew it was one of the consequences but he's hadn't prepared for it and he hadn't expected it to be so brutal, so ruthlessly miserable.

His head in his hands, he stays on the ground outside his old home for much longer than he should, before finally wincing his way into an upright position. As he stands, he wobbles unsteadily, not used to being without his wings to maintain an equilibrium.

Stumbling, he gently pulls out the coloured contact lenses he's wearing to reveal his stunning blue eyes, not that there's anyone around to notice them. Nobody can see the green and yellow swirling in his eyes and nobody can see the pain laces in his usually cheerful orbs.

He carries on walking despite the woeful agony that spreads though his veins like smoke.

Spikes of pain shoot up his legs every time he walks and he knows there'll be bleeding gashes on his shoulder blades in place of his wings.

He doesn't care.

Phil can't help the small, smug smile that intermittently flickers on his face as realises he's done it.

He's actually done it: He's lied to heaven and left his home. Well, he's left what he thought was his home.

He knows now that his home is not a building, but a person.

His home is one person, the demon boy who stole the stars for him. The same boy who felt as if he was worthless and the same boy who's constant scowl transforms into an unstoppable smile every time they meet one another.

He knows that the demon boy is the only home he ever needs in his life.

So he walks on until he gets to the outcast territory, his pace slowing more and more as he gets closer.

He knows they know he's here and he knows they'll be watching him suspiciously so he just carries on walking as best as he can.

He groans as his eyesight becomes blurry and the colours around him smudge into a senseless mess.

Still, he walks on.

He doesn't notice as he slows down to an almost halt; he doesn't notice as he wobbles dangerously and sways side to side; and he definitely doesn't notice his gaunt knees buckling and his trembling body hitting the sandy yellow ground as his eyes roll backwards and he falls into unconsciousness with a whimper.

But the outlanders notice.

Those who were too human to be angels or demons; the ones who settled as human.

He doesn't feel them gently lift him up, almost dropping him as a half-sob escapes his lips; he doesn't feel them carefully lay him down so they can check him for injuries; and he doesn't know that they find the wings' wounds that give away his previous position as an angel.

The outlanders don't mind.

He's one of them now.

They take him back to their huts and let him rest, giving him herbal medicines to bring down his fever and ease the pain.

When he wakes, he does so with a sob, curling up as pain trickles into his mind.

He gasps, automatically trying to envelop himself in his wings but only wrapping his arms around his knees as he remembers he's lost them.

"Who are you?" one of the outlanders asks quietly.

He takes a breath and uses the back of his hand to brush away the tears on his face.

"Phil," he replies softly, coughing.

"You were an angel?" they ask but somehow, it seems more like a statement than an inquiry.

"Not quite," Phil tells him, "I'm too human."

The outlanders who'd walked in all look skeptical so he takes a deep breath.

"I was one of the many impure angels and I was okay with that, until I realised I have something worth being human for," he explains.

The girl, who'd previously looked doubtful, smiles at him, "Something? Or someone?"

"The latter," Phil confirms.

"And you're okay to fighting with us?"

"Of course," Phil says, a fire in his eyes that the outlanders all gasp at, before pausing, "But I need to say one thing."

"What?"

"I might be fighting with you but I can't fight for you," Phil states calmly, the fire still blazing in his eyes nonetheless.

"As long as you know what you're fighting for…" the girl smiles.

"Oh, I do."

Phil shakily stands and they grin, nodding at him as if it's a common occurrence here.

He supposes that it may well be.

They lead him to the weapons room, where all the soldiers come to re-stock their supply or grab a new weapon if theirs gets destroyed.

Glancing over his choice, he takes a shotgun and slings it over his shoulder, a smile playing at his lips.

He follows the group heading into the battlefield, staying a few steps behind so he can watch out for a certain demon boy.

Avoiding any actual killing, he wounds angels and demons alike, watching them fall and burn.

All the while searching.

Searching for a mop of curly brown hair and the warm, chocolate eyes he's missed looking into every night.

Someone throws what he recognises to be a grenade and is about to run for cover when he spots the one he's been looking for: the demon boy.

Instead of fleeing, he runs towards the roaring flames, shouting a name as he goes.

"Dan!"

The demon boy freezes, shoots a few angels as they try to attack him, then returns to his state of shock, his eyes wide and his jaw slack.

Phil doesn't hesitate to wrap his arms around the other boy, pulling him as close as possible.

Dan sighs.

He returns Phil's hug just as tightly, wanting to eliminate the space between them until they're one unit again, the same soul in two bodies.

And, amidst the soot, flames and bullets, they feel their hearts connect.

The soldiers around them forgotten, they are all that matter in the world.

They are the start and the end, two bright hearts belonging to the same infinity.

"Phil…" Dan breathes softly as they pull apart, their fingers still intertwined.

"You've put on your war paint…" Phil grins cheekily as he strokes the ashes on Dan's cheeks.

"Now is not the time for a Fall Out Boy reference!" Dan rolls his eyes but emits a soft chuckle anyway.

"Dan, I love you," Phil whispers.

"I love you too, Phil." Dan smiles.

Just like that, the war doesn't matter.

Days later, when they've recovered and the battles have come to a standstill, they'll have time to talk. They'll have time for Dan to protest against Phil losing his wings for him; they'll have time for Phil to argue that he was and always will be worth it. They'll have time…

But for now, they stand in the middle of a war.

They stand together.

And they stand as one.

Dan and Phil.

The too-human demon and the too-human angel.

A spawn of evil and a spawn of good.

A demon soldier and an angel fighter...

An angel with a shotgun.

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Just a lil oneshot based on the song 'Angel With A Shotgun' by The Cab!

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 _Please leave a review! Any thoughts and feedback or requests for something else?_ _Have a good one :)_


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